


The Exam

by ProlificPen



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Bones/Spock if you squint hard enough, Episode: s01e13 The Galileo Seven, Galileo Seven, M/M, alternate episode ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 20:15:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14626233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProlificPen/pseuds/ProlificPen
Summary: The ending of Season 1’s Galileo Seven is basically a laugh track. This fic fixes that ending so that it fits much more in tone with the rest of the episode. Bones/Spock undertones.





	The Exam

“Mr. Spock, you had better sit back down on that bed or, so help me God, I will declare you unfit for duty and send you on the first shuttle back to earth.” The words came from Doctor McCoy’s mouth in a low growl, and he gestured firmly toward the sick-bay bed the half-vulcan Lieutenant Commander had vacated just seconds before.

After a moment of hesitation, Spock complied with the Chief Medical Officer’s order and sank back onto the edge of the bed before drolly reminding the other man, “Doctor, it is unnecessary to invoke the name of primitive human dieties to gain my compliance, and I hardly see the need to declare me unfit for duty as you have already completed your medical examination.”

McCoy didn’t even try to contain the eye roll that seemed to be his instinctive response to nearly everything that Spock did or said. Instead, he drew out the gesture in a protracted manner that would certainly get his annoyance across to the emotionally dense half-Vulcan. As McCoy’s hands flitted over his computer screen, entering in observations and measurements from his examination of the first officer, he found himself wishing that impatience were not an emotion. The cool logical and emotionless exterior Spock exuded annoyed McCoy on his best days, and after all they had been through on the planet, his inability to affect Spock in any way was more frustrating than usual.

It was petty, sure, but sometimes getting an emotional reaction out of another human being was the best therapy of all. It just so happened that the target of his frustrations was an immovable object.

Heaving a sigh, McCoy finally turned his attention from the computer screen to Spock, and corrected the other man, “No, Mr. Spock, I have not completed your examination. Starfleet regulations specifically require that I perform a complete psychological examination after the loss of a crew member under your command.”

“Doctor, those regulations were designed with human officers in mind,” Spock protested evenly, “Human emotion necessarily creates significant psychological turmoil after events such as the one today. As humans have not developed adequate coping skills to process loss in any productive manner, it is logical that a human officer may need such a psychological debriefing in order to ensure continued competence in his duties due to the traumatic effect of emotions on an already fragile psyche.”

Walking around his computer station, McCoy pulled a stool along with him as he walked toward the examination table, “And I suppose Vulcans don’t need psychological examinations because of their pathological lack of emotions bordering on psychopathy?”

“Quite the contrary, Doctor. Psychopathy, though often associated with a lack of empathy, is not an appropriate or accurate description of the Vulcan emotional state. It is not that Vulcans lack emotion, but we have trained ourselves to control and channel our emotions through logic. Because of that, I am more equipped to handle those situations which would usually require psychological debriefing or treatment in a human officer.”

“Your blood may run Vulcan green, Mister Spock,” McCoy responded, settling on the stool clipboard in hand, “But do you forget that your Vulcan heritage only composes half of your genetic makeup? Your mother was human.”

Spock’s jaw clenched ever so slightly at the reminder, but his voice and expression remained otherwise unaffected as he responded, “No, Doctor. That is something that I remember every day.”

Though he made a quick notation in the chart of the brief physical response, McCoy did not comment on it. Instead, he glanced up at the monitors tracking Spock’s vital signs before returning his attention to the half-Vulcan and inquiring, “Your solution to securing our rescue was certainly an illogical reaction, Mr. Spock. Releasing all of our fuel on the minuscule chance that someone would see the flare and come to our rescue. You had no way of knowing the Captain would see our flare.”

“Doctor, you confuse illogical with improbable,” Spock explained, “It would have been impossible for our shuttle to escape orbit with the limited amount of fuel we had available, and given the time limitations imposed by our fuel quantities and my knowledge of the Captain’s own time imperatives, the only possible way to ensure that we may have been seen was to take the course of action that I did.”

McCoy studied the other man for a moment before countering, “But Mister Spock, you did not know that Captain Kirk would see your flare.”

“No, Doctor, I did not, but rescue would have been impossible without a method of alerting the Captain to our status,” Spock explained, “You see Doctor, in deduction as well as in command, once you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, however improbable, is the truth.”

McCoy sighed, reaching up to rub his eyes which were suddenly burning and uncomfortable. Whether that and his sudden headache were from exhaustion or frustration, he didn’t know, but it was abundantly clear he wasn’t going to get any more out of the hyper-logical first officer. So, he waved his hand dismissively toward the door, “You’re free to go, Mister Spock. It’s clear your psychological health is no worse than its typical abnormal state.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Spock acknowledged slipping from the examination table and walking across the room toward the exit. He paused however, as he reached the door, calling out, “Doctor McCoy.”

“What is it, Mister Spock?” McCoy glanced over his shoulder to where the first officer stood.

“I understand that an ancient earth military tradition is to drink an intoxicating beverage in honor of a fallen crewman,” Spock explained slowly, a hint of skepticism creeping into his voice, “Given that Starfleet is modeled after such traditions, perhaps we should proceed to the Officer’s lounge to have a drink of some sort of beverage in honor of Mister Latimer.”

“Spock, are you asking me to have a drink with you?” McCoy’s eyebrow lifted of its own accord.

“It’s a silly earth tradition,” Spock shrugged, “I merely recognize the value to crew morale in such a gesture.”

“Morale,” McCoy repeated, the skepticism in his voice apparent. He crossed the room to join Spock and reached to open the door, “Come on, Spock. Let’s see if Scotty has any single malt.”


End file.
